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<title>hate is a strong word (but i really really really don't like you) by johnllauren</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24798472">hate is a strong word (but i really really really don't like you)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnllauren/pseuds/johnllauren'>johnllauren</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>hetalia rarepair week 2020 [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hetalia: Axis Powers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Hate Sex, Historical Hetalia, M/M, Making Out, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, the sex isn't graphic or explicit tho</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 00:27:50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,286</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24798472</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnllauren/pseuds/johnllauren</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“We’re going to be late. Again.” Austria says. </p>
<p>	“As if you’ve ever cared about punctuality.” France replies, looking him up and down excruciatingly slowly. </p>
<p>	Austria shrugs. “Perhaps I do. Perhaps I’ve changed.” but he’s already undoing his cravat, and, well.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Austria/France (Hetalia)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>hetalia rarepair week 2020 [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1786603</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>hate is a strong word (but i really really really don't like you)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>for aph rarepair week, day 5: free day<br/>title from hate (I really don't like you) by the plain white ts<br/>this is a companion piece to my prueng fic "I'm afraid that's just the way the world works," though this works as a stand-alone as well!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>1756</p>
<p>	“We’re going to be late. Again.” Austria says. </p>
<p>	“As if you’ve ever cared about punctuality.” France replies, looking him up and down excruciatingly slowly. </p>
<p>	Austria shrugs. “Perhaps I do. Perhaps I’ve changed.” but he’s already undoing his cravat, and, well. </p>
<p>	They hardly spoke to each other on occasions that weren’t like this. Which, truth be told, suited France just fine: he was about as happy as Austria about this whole arrangement, having allied with a loser (and a sore one at that) who happens to have a giant stick up his ass. He’s sure Austria feels the same way, though France’s ego keeps insisting that he’s a very easy country to be allied with. Regardless, it’s nice to have a warm body around, especially when he feels the same way. </p>
<p>	“People like us never change,” Francis says, with disdain, disgust. </p>
<p>	Austria’s eyes flash with something like anger, a disagreement, but he doesn’t bring it up. “Whatever gets you to sleep at night,” he says, feigning indifference.</p>
<p>	France wants to say that he doesn’t sleep at night, not easily, not with the way the constant threat of war with England in the colonies constantly hangs over his head. But Austria hasn’t exactly had the best 50 years either, and he drops it. Instead, he reaches forward to remove Austria’s glasses. Austria blinks but doesn’t seem surprised at the contact, and France sets them down on the table. He licks his lip in anticipation.</p>
<p>“Just kiss me,” Austria says. </p>
<p>	“I thought you’d never ask.” </p>
<p>	And then they’re kissing.</p>
<p>	They’ve never kissed gently, not even in the few fleeting moments after waking up together in the morning. They are too hurt by everything, too <em>not</em> in love for something gentle. Austria is too much of a little bitch, and France is too willing to indulge him, and they are too angry, too consumed with lust. </p>
<p>	France’s hands travel to Austria’s hair, pulling it the way Austria likes, and he’s rewarded with a slight noise. Austria grapples for a hold on France, ends up grabbing the lapel of his jacket, pulling him closer. </p>
<p>	“How late do you want to be?” France asks against Austria’s lips, punctuating it with a bite to Austria’s lower lip that makes him hiss. </p>
<p>	“I don’t care,” Austria says. </p>
<p>	“Fair enough.” </p>
<p>	Austria initiates the kiss this time, rough and sloppy. France moves a hand to his hip to steer them both away from the middle of the room, until they’ve reached a wall of his bedroom that isn’t covered in paintings or mirrors or furniture. He all but slams Austria against it, and Austria pulls him closer, too, so they’re chest to chest once more. </p>
<p>	His hands are working to unbutton France’s shirt, which proves difficult with the way they’re pressed together, but they manage. They shed the layers piece by piece, letting them fall onto the floor in crumpled piles. And if they show up late to the meeting with wrinkled clothes, it’s not like anyone is going to <em>say</em> anything about it, so it means nothing. </p>
<p>	It’s Austria’s turn to terrorize France, he supposes, because then there are hands in his hair, tugging hard, smashing his face to Austria’s in a way that might bruise one or both of their lips. </p>
<p>	“Fuck,” France says into the kiss, grabbing Austria’s now-bare hips and moving them closer, granting both of them contact, friction. </p>
<p>	Austria moans. </p>
<p>	When France’s mouth is at Austria’s neck, he looks up at Austria in a silent question, asking permission to go on, and Austria nods. “Mark me,” Austria says. His voice is never as gruff and low as it is when they’re like this, and France understands the way Austria is practically begging him to make him forget. So France leaves marks along Austria’s neck under where his collar will be in a mere half hour. He trails kisses down Austria’s chest, to his stomach, where he bites, sharp and quick and unexpected, and Austria lets out a noise of surprise.</p>
<p>	“Fuck you,” Austria says through gritted teeth. </p>
<p>	“But you won’t fuck me, you’re too much of a princess.” </p>
<p>	Austria’s eyes flash with rage at the thinly-veiled blow about their most recent war, the whole reason they’re in this fucking mess. His hands tighten in France’s hair, but the action only spurs France on, inspired and more than a little aroused by the pain. </p>
<p>	“You can’t keep your own territory, Edelstein, not with one of the strongest armies in the world helping you,” France says, and he doesn’t know how much of it he means - how much of it is the product of the heat in their current situation, how much of it is his own anger at being saddled with this alliance. “Not after all the opportunities you had to take it back.”</p>
<p>	“Shut the fuck up.” </p>
<p>	“You’re an empire, you can’t take a little friendly criticism?” France asks, his hand brushing against Austria’s dick. </p>
<p>	It takes Austria a moment to respond as he catches his breath. He takes France’s face in his hand, grabbing his jaw and yanking it up so France is forced to look at him. “I said shut the fuck up,” Austria says, and there is anger dripping from his voice.</p>
<p>	“That’s more like it.” France responds, a smile playing on his lips. </p>
<p>	They end up staying like that, against the wall. France rocks into Austria at a pace that is tantalizingly slow, and Austria responds by grabbing his hair and hissing out variations of <em>fuck</em> and <em>shit</em> and <em>harder, Jesus Christ,</em> but never France’s name. France strokes Austria through the high, and Austria clings to France, kissing him softly, open-mouthed and wrecked. </p>
<p>	And then the high dissipates and they separate, searching through piles of clothes that have been discarded onto the floor. Another long day of negotiations is waiting for them, and neither of them are quite excited for it, though the quicker this ends the quicker Austria can fuck off back to Vienna and they won’t have to act like allies or see each other every day anymore. </p>
<p>	Austria’s fingers ghost over the bruises France has left on his chest like they’re something beautiful, and France wonders if Austria thinks about them as he bathes, looks at the bruises instead of new scars from freshly lost territory, thinks about France instead of his failed marriage. He doesn’t ask. </p>
<p>	“Your hair is all messed up,” France says instead, reaching forward to fix it. He tries to push Austria’s hair into the way it was before this, to some success, while Austria makes various displeased faces. </p>
<p>	“You should know, you’re the reason it looks like this in the first place,” Austria says.</p>
<p>	“Yeah, well, you seemed to like it well enough.”</p>
<p>	Austria shrugs. “Maybe,” but he’s smiling.</p>
<p>	After France buttons his waistcoat, Austria steps forward and tries to smooth it out by tugging on it rather roughly. </p>
<p>	“It looks fine.” France insists.</p>
<p>	“We’re going to see your king today and you look like you just rolled around on the floor.”</p>
<p>	“My king has seen me in much worse states than this one,” France assures him, and Austria makes a confused face like he isn’t sure if that was a sex joke or not but doesn’t want to know either way.</p>
<p>	“Next time we’ll put our clothes on hangers before we fuck, how does that sound?” France asks.</p>
<p>	Austria rolls his eyes. “You wouldn’t have the self-control.” </p>
<p>	“And you would?”</p>
<p>	They leave the room after another glance at the clock (“fuck, we are <em>so</em> late,”). France holds out his arm for Austria to take, but Austria declines. </p>
<p>	“We aren’t married,” Austria says with disdain, quickening his pace so he’s slightly ahead of France.</p>
<p>	“Thank God.” France responds.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>find me on tumblr: lafayettesass!<br/>pls comment I need the serotonin</p></blockquote></div></div>
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